


Hot, Straight, and True

by cymbalism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Navy, Alternate Universe - World War II, Dog Tags, Established Relationship, M/M, Military Uniforms, Morning Sex, officer!Cas, sailor!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the goddamn apocalypse out there—but here, this morning, Dean's got nothing to worry about but Cas's hungry mouth and angel-blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot, Straight, and True

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a smutty, inconsequential Dean/Cas something but I'm bad at decontextualized sex, so here, have an AU. It’s a WWII in the Pacific Navy AU. Because of course it is. Special thanks to [](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770055) [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sublunarymagic) [**sublunarymagic**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sublunarymagic), [](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770055) [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ehonauta) [**ehonauta**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ehonauta), and [](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770055) [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell) [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell)**lielabell** for being indulgent and wonderful. The amount of encouragement I needed to finish this thing is severely disproportionate to its length.

* * *

Dean feels the heat swell before he even open his eyes. It's morning.

November means summer here on the wrong side of the equator and it's as steamy hot as an engine room already. A hell of a lot quieter, though. The whole island could still be asleep. Dean scrubs at his eyes with his wrist, his other arm shoved up behind his neck under the flat military-issue pillow, and lifts his head just enough to glare at the sun. He's seen more than a few sunrises lately, but this is the first regular morning he's had in months—one that comes after a night's sleep, in a bed that's not a bunk, and a body to share it with.

That last part, that's tricky. Which might be a little bit why Dean likes it best.

He tips his head to get a look at Cas or, at least, the back of his head. He's still sleeping, dead to the world judging by the slow drag of his breaths. His hair's rucked up every which way, which isn't much different from usual, except Dean remembers last night and knows he had a hand in making it that way. Same as he knows Cas is naked as jaybird under that sheet. He smiles to himself and rolls onto his side, slipping close in along the long smooth length of Cas's bare spine, rising sun be damned.

It's not what Cas would call wise for Dean to be here, to _still_ be here, and the more light spills above the horizon the truer that is. Cas's officer quarters might have walls, but that's not the same thing as privacy. They're still on base. They're still surrounded by a few thousand sailors. They're still flirting with a court martial and dishonorable discharge. But this, this never happens—Cas's ship docked for resupply at the same time, same place as Dean's PT boat is put up for repair.

They haven't seen each other in six months. Dean wasn't altogether sure it would be the same between them, if what they'd had before Cas's promotion would still be there. They'd never put a name on it, and Dean's not sure he could, or wants to, but he knows it's been too long and he cares more about all the reasons to be here more than the reasons not to be. That last battle had been an ugly night fight—like a barroom brawl after the lights had been shot out, Dean had heard somebody call it—and that was after months of night runs and ambush attacks up and down the Slot, from Bougainville to Guadalcanal and back again. But it was all worth it for the fleet R&R that's got them here together. Helps that the good guys won, he supposes.

Dean skates his palm up, over, and down the bend of Cas's hip, watching as the sheet pulls down, showing him more skin. With the air warm as breath, Cas doesn't even notice. It was worth it for this, Dean thinks, this one chance for a sleepy, slow morning fuck. The kind they never get to have.

He slips his hand around Cas's hip, fingers easily finding the dark scruff there. Dean tucks his nose against the back of Cas's neck and breathes deep—he woke up half hard and just touching Cas makes him harder. His fingers find Cas's own sleep-soft dick and he palms over it, fingers tucking down around the loose skin, cupping his balls. He massages, gently, uses his thumb to coax things along. Cas stirs, giving a sleepy, questioning hum. Dean smiles and kisses his shoulder in reply.

"Dean?" Cas's voice breaks, low and rough.

"Better not be anybody else," Dean quips quietly and gives Cas's earlobe a playful bite.

"You shouldn't still be here," Cas rumbles, even as his hips give an interested push into Dean's hand.

"It's early," Dean shrugs, wrapping his fingers all the way around Cas's length now. "You can go back to sleep if you want."

Cas's chuckle turns into a contented hum. He fumbles a hand blindly back, trying to slide it between their bodies, but Dean stops him and shushes into his ear. "No hurry," he says. "Just let me." Cas gives a short huff but withdraws his hand. Dean shifts even closer, feeling the swish of his dogtags against his chest before they're trapped as he presses skin to skin, not leaving an inch between them. It's too warm, there's already a sheen of sweat covering them both, but it's good like this.

"Do you ever think about this?" Cas asks, face still half buried in the pillow. "About us?" His breath hitches as Dean's thumb skates over the plum head of his erection.

"'Course," Dean says, lacing it with just enough mischief that Cas laughs again.

"I mean what we are, to each other." He runs an ankle up Dean's calf, tangles their legs together. Dean nudges his own erection against the cleft of Cas's ass, wishing for all the world he didn't still have his Navy-issue skivvies on, and lets Cas ramble.

"Sometimes I can't comprehend it. It's like the war—so massive I can't envision it all, so big it might overpower me, might sweep me away, swallow me.

"But I want it," he says, rock solid with determination. "Dean, I won't run from it. I'll make it part of me instead."

He tilts his head back and kisses Dean then, sideways and sloppy but just as determined, almost desperate.

Dean's not sure he's got 100 percent of that, but he understands at least one underlying truth—much as they might want peace, they're made for war. For however long it lasts, or even longer, this is what they are.

They writhe tangled together like that, Cas bare and hot under Dean's hand.

Dean's more than grateful the war hasn't swallowed Cas. He doesn't worry about his own survival—PTs are shit duty for the crazy and dangerous, sure, but his boat is fast and its crew fierce. So long as there's no Jakes in the air, they got a shot. The higher-ups see it the other way round, though. They decided Cas's pretty ass is too precious to risk on a disposable boat and made him XO on a destroyer. But Cas's tin can is a floating target 24/7, and what just happened to _Atlanta_ —lit up at point-blank range, showered with gunfire, and crippled by a couple torpedoes to the gut—that could happen on any given convoy or cruise.

Then again, they knew the moment they met they were probably dead men, but that only made breaking every rule even more of a no-brainer—because if not now, never. And so far, by the grace of the God Cas counts on and Dean doesn't quite believe in, they're both still here.

Dean shifts up onto his elbow and leans all the way over Cas to grab the tin of petroleum jelly from the floor where it got chucked last night. They'd gone fast and hard, desperate for proof of life and each other. It did the trick, and Dean would always take Cas however he could get him, but this morning he wants something to commit to memory.

As he moves back he's greeted by Cas's blinking blue stare. Dean grins at him. "Mornin'."

Cas echoes his smile—it squeezes all the way up to the corners of his eyes—and Dean leans down to kiss him. Cas's tongue traces Dean's bottom lip, sucks it between his teeth. He makes a feast of Dean's mouth, kissing and tasting as though he's a home-cooked meal or a friggin' last supper. Dean doesn't think twice about giving him all he's got.

There's a war going on out there—it's the goddamn apocalypse—but here, this morning, Dean's got nothing to worry about but Cas's hungry mouth and angel-blue eyes.

With a few final pecks, he leans back, settling in behind Cas again, and swipes two fingers through the petroleum jelly. He rubs it between his thumb and fingers first, warming and loosening the gel as Cas reaches back to lazily stroke his side. When he folds his slicked fingers around Cas's pert and pretty erection they both moan. Cas curls in on himself for a second, then stretches out and fucks into Dean's hand with a satisfied groan, grabbing a handful of Dean's hip to as if to keep him close. Dean kisses his neck behind his ear and sets a pace.

Thing is, Dean's a munitions grunt—he knows his weapons. PT boats carry two torpedoes apiece per run, and Dean's boat bristles with two machine guns and four cannon. Every one of those guns is his baby. His boat can blow a hole in a Jap cruiser from sixteen thousand yards. And sure, firing a torpedo can be like a roll of the dice. Sometimes those Mark 8s would porpoise off course or even turn in a goddamn circle to head back at them. But sometimes—enough times—they leave the tube hot, cut straight under waves, and hit their mark true.

Dean knows weapons, knows cause and effect, knows triggers.

Knows that when he crooks his finger like _that_ Cas arches and groans, and if he flicks one fingertip down quick _there_ , Cas loses his breath and begs.

"Dean," he pants. "Dean, please. Oh—"

Always so polite, that Cas, even when he's not acting officer. Dean smiles and obliges, dipping down to nudge that tight point of muscle again.

"Can I, Cas?" he whispers, nipping the shell of Cas's ear as he strokes and presses. "You up for it?"

The kiss Cas pulls him in for, fingers knuckled into the nape of his neck, yanking him close to seal their mouths—it's all the answer Dean needs.

He pushes in lightly and Cas groans, quiet but deep, rolling back off his hip and bending a knee up over Dean's legs, spreading himself under Dean's touch. Dean inches down, furthering his reach. His finger sinks to the knuckle and Cas throws his head back and breathes Dean's name hard.

That's all Dean does for an exquisite stretch: slip in and out of Cas, one finger, two fingers at a time, pulling out to smooth over his entrance, slick his body, soothe and tease and stretch. He kisses where he can, bites at Cas's shoulder, and just touches, just watches Cas take his touch. No hurry.

It's what Dean wanted—a nice, long, lazy fuck. But he also wants to see it when Cas comes, wants to watch it spill out and slide up his chest, make that his souvenir memory. He leaves off and pulls Cas back against him, wrapping his damp, slick hand around Cas's cock with an upward stroke. Cas gasps and clenches his fingers at Dean's hip, but doesn't stop him. Just as he has all morning, he gives himself over and lets Dean work him up. It's been too long since Dean did this, but not so long he's forgotten how.

The sheets are hot beneath their bodies, the air boils between them. Dean feels sweat at his forehead, at every place their bodies touch.

"Come for me, Cas," he whispers when he knows Cas is close. "Wanna see you do it."

Cas shudders, clutches tighter at Dean, but he shakes his head. "Fuck me first," he says, and Dean almost loses it at the rough gravel of his voice.

But he's not gonna argue with an order like that.

Dean rolls out from under him and finally shucks his briefs. He scoots on his knees between Cas's thighs and Cas leans up to beg a kiss with his mouth. Dean gets himself slick—the first time he's touched himself all morning, but it only takes a few pulls to makes sure he's hard enough. Below him, Cas lays back and cants his hips, ready and waiting like the well-trained sailor he is. He smiles crookedly at Dean as though he caught the thought, but it disappears as Dean slides two fingers into him, teasing, testing.

Cas's eyelids flutter, mouth falling open momentarily before he gulps, twisting his hips to bear down on Dean's fingers. "Hop to, sailor," he challenges.

Dean grins and gets set. Cas bites his bottom lip and strains, silent, as Dean pushes in. Dean groans loudly and starts in on a string of curses, overloaded by the hot pressure, but he's cut off by Cas slapping a palm over his mouth and narrowing his eyes. He almost laughs but doesn't, only huffs from deep in his lungs, too distracted by the tight fit of Cas's body anyhow.

Sunlight spills onto the bed now, hits the wall on the opposite side of the room around their shadows. Dean stays quiet as he takes long, slow drags, their sharp breaths and bitten-off moans the only sounds in the room. Cas rocks his body up, hooking his ankles around Dean's ass, forcing him close, deep. "Dean," he whispers, clipped and desperate, and Dean sees he has his own cock in hand, jacking it steadily in the wake of Dean's hips. He thrusts short, trying to keep it on the slow side, but Cas is insistent and Dean loves the blunt force of it.

He takes over for Cas, trying to mimic his hand motion and concentrating hard on keeping it all together even as Cas falls apart beneath him—these are the only times Dean has ever seen him give up all control, let go until all those rigid rules he wraps himself in unravel. He brings Cas off, arching and gasping, and smiles as the white spill hits Cas's skin, spatters hot on Dean's hand. Cas comes open-mouthed but near silent and Dean feels it, feels his body clench and tense around him. He drops forward, crashing into Cas with a kiss.

Cas's hands flutter up to his shoulders, seeking anchor, but Dean weaves their fingers together and pins them down. He sets his knees and fucks him faster now, feeling the strain burn in his thighs, the aftershocks of Cas's orgasm pulse around him. Dean sucks kisses from Cas's mouth, their skin slippery, his dogs tags pooling on Cas's chest, Cas's hair in hopeless, sweaty spikes. Dean wants to erase everything around them—the barracks, the island, the war, the world—to make this moment stay and the rest disappear.

And then it does. It all falls away, blank and black behind his eyelids as he comes, rushing hot and firing through his bones. Cas's fingers scrape through the damp hair at the back of his head and Dean grunts a gruff curse into his shoulder.

When the world comes back, Dean has a hard time un-tensing. He's locked around Cas, unable and unwilling to let go, but a roll of Cas's hips tells him he's got to. He pulls free carefully, then reels off to the side, wrecked. Cas rubs a hand on Dean's upper thigh, one calm point of contact.

They don't say anything for a while.

Dean thinks about getting back to his boat, putting to sea again. He thinks about the other members on his crew, about Chuck's spam and marmalade sandwiches, the wide empty ocean, the spark and smoke of a torpedo fire. He knows he can't wish away the war. Like Cas said, he has to go out and meet it. And he will, but . . .

Dean's got a little brother who'll be old enough to fight in a year. He'd be out here already if Dean hadn't begged him not to lie about his age on his enlistment papers and finish high school first. He doesn't want to think about Sammy manning a machine gun, or seeing half the shit he's seen. Dean looks over at Cas, wishing for the thousandth time he was still CO in Dean's boat. He's already got too much to lose on these front lines.

He wipes a hand over his face, pinching at his eyes. The sun is fully up now. It'll be a scorcher again, of course. Always is. He squeezes Cas's hand and gives him a smile before sitting up and reaching for his discarded clothes. Dean scrapes together the pieces of something like a uniform—dress code's pretty lax on the equator—and Cas moves about, too, cleaning himself up. He's got an unbuttoned shirt and some skivvies on by the time Dean's ready to go.

"You ship out when?" Dean asks, careful to keep his voice low. He inches close to Cas, fingers finding the button edge of his shirt and fiddling with it half unconsciously.

"Next week." Cas's hand makes it to Dean's hip. "You?"

"Thursday." Dean doesn't like the way the word almost sticks in his throat.

Cas nods. Neither of them moves. There's no telling when they'll be together next. They can't risk this again, not here. But they'll find their way back. They have so far.

There are voices outside. Reveille must've played while they were too interested in each other to notice.

"You should go," Cas tells him.

Dean paints on a smile and gives two sharp tugs on Cas's shirt. He kisses him quickly then moves away, grabbing his hat from under Cas's on the chair near the door.

His hand is on the knob, ready to turn it, when he's yanked back. Cas fists Dean's uniform and spins him, shoving Dean against the door and kissing him. Such a sudden, searing kiss, burning bright white behind Dean's eyelids, like the equator midday sun on the ocean. And this time Dean gets it, that feeling Cas was talking about earlier, that's too big to comprehend—it was this. It's huge and hot in Dean's veins, coursing toward his heart, running hot, straight, and true. Right on target.

Cas cuts off to take breath, forehead still smashed tight against Dean's.

"Stay safe," he says, voice not much more than a rasp, and pushes away.

Dean quirks a smile. They both know that's impossible. There's a war on.

But he hears what isn't being said.

"Yeah," he answers, cracking open the door. "You too."

 

— end —

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Historical notes:** Fic takes place after the naval battle of Guadalcanal which took place on 13 November 1942 and ended in Allied victory over the Japanese. The Guadalcanal / Solomons Islands Campaigns are often cited as the turning point the in Pacific war.
> 
> **Glossary of terms:**
> 
>  ** _Atlanta_** – light cruiser heavily damaged during the Guadalcanal engagement; subsequently sunk  
>  **"barroom brawl after somebody shot the lights out"** – quote from a destroyer officer who fought the battle  
>  **CO** – commanding officer  
>  **Jake** – American name for a Japanese reconnaissance aircraft  
>  **Mark 8** – type of torpedo used early in the war  
>  **PT boat** – Patrol torpedo boat; made of wood for easy, inexpensive repair  
>  **skivvies** – underpants  
>  **The Slot** – channel running down the center of the Solomon Islands  
>  **tin can** – sailors' nickname for destroyers  
>  **XO** – executive officer
> 
> **Photo of Mark 8 torpedo and cannon aboard PT boat:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Now with bonus fanart!**
> 
>  
> 
> by xlamentcasx  
> Click [here](http://xlamentcasx.livejournal.com/26536.html) for more and to tell her she's awesome.


End file.
